


Tho’ it were ten thousand mile

by middlemarch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aga, F/M, Romance, Scotland, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: It would not be a Bridget Jones sort of mini-break, that was obvious from the moment he opened the door.





	Tho’ it were ten thousand mile

The cottage had stone walls and an Aga. It had a dresser with china and tea cups and a scrubbed table; the kettle was battered and the window cut above the kitchen sink looked out over a sere field. The sky felt low, filled with clouds, and there was a scent in the air, the sea and isolation, that Vivian felt Gareth inhaled like the finest perfume. She’d never seen this expression on his face before, pride and embarrassment; she thought he might duck his head like a school-boy in a cap except that it was only the lintel was not made for a man as tall as he was. His hand was at the small of her back, through the cashmere sweater that was too thin, so she walked in, wordless. Her luggage was non-descript but it seemed like it was from the distant future, that she should have had a carpet-bag and at least a cheap gold band on her finger. She wasn’t sure what he would do if she said it, if he would laugh or smile or nod. Or lean in to kiss her, as if there wasn’t anything worth saying, worth listening to.

“Not what you expected?” he asked.

“That presumes I had expectations,” she said, moving further into the room. Gareth put down the bags his carried and stepped behind her. She felt his hands stroke down her shoulders, rest on her waist.

“You didn’t? I do find that hard to believe,” he said, his breath soft on her bare neck. She looked at the fireplace filled with split logs, a basket of twigs beside a possible ancient set of andirons and bellows. The rug was worn but there was a heavy throw on the sofa and some plump pillows…she found she knew how he would look gilded by firelight but not what he would call her here, when she gazed down at him. When she shivered and he groaned with her trembling.

“I expect you know how to manage the Aga. I certainly don’t,” she replied. He laughed and she smiled, a smile he wouldn’t see. 

“I do. You needn’t lift a finger,” he said, tightening his grasp, brushing a kiss below her ear. 

“Perhaps I needn’t,” she murmured, shifting in his arms, drawing her thumb along his jaw, his lower lip. “I want to.”

*

_Love_ was what he called her later. She didn’t ask what he meant.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small story to provide context to a reference made in another or my Gareth/Vivian fits about a cottage in Caithness. The title is, aptly, from Robert Burns.


End file.
